


you're of a wild breed

by kuro49



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Catboy Jason Todd, First Time, M/M, Marking, Multiple Temporary Character Death, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: Jason has nine lives to live. He wastes all his remaining ones on Bruce.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 120
Collections: BruJay Week 2021





	1. the happy ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salmonellagogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmonellagogo/gifts).



> happy birthhhhdaaay to my best sprint partner 💖💖💖 here's the...... saddest catboy fic ever, i just wanted to get to the cute catballs porn for you but that didn't even really happen.... ;w;

What Bruce doesn't remember is that Jason died the day he found him.

In the same alleyway where his mother and his father died, Jason was cold, was wet, having breathed his last breath curled up inside of a cardboard box soaked through in the heavy mid-autumn rain.

What Bruce doesn't remember is that Jason came back to life in the crook of his arms.

And it is not magic or luck or what have you: It's Bruce breathing his second life into him.

Jason has nine lives to live.

He wastes all his remaining ones on Bruce.

Bruce pads into his bedroom without a sound, his bare feet silent against the carpet.

It's a familiar sight to find Jason clutching a pillow to his chest, the boy curled up on top of the covers at the end of the bed while his tail flickers back and forth. His ears are pressed down against the top of his head, and Bruce would miss the twitch of the tips of those ears if it isn't for the way Jason blinks open an eye too. It's reflective in the dark, a shine where there is none to be found on a normal boy.

But Jason is hardly that.

"You don't like your room, Jaylad?" Bruce asks, his voice soft, a low croon as he comes up to the side of the bed.

"I like yours better." Jason tells him, mumbling around a big yawn that forces his jaw to open wide, flashing pink where his tongue curls at the tip.

"Under the covers then," Bruce says as he gets into bed, tugs the sheets free of where they are tucked at each corner. Jason scrambles to slip under the blankets with him, already tucking himself up against the warmth of Bruce's side. The pillow is left to sit abandoned at the foot of the bed where his toes don't reach. Bruce wraps an arm around the boy, lets him nuzzle in closer until there isn't even a sliver of space in between them. "Just tonight though."

It's not just tonight though.

(It's every night after.)

His second death is deliberate. It's murder. It's the curved edge of the crowbar coming into contact with his skull.

His third one is too. It's the crowbar swinging into his side and cracking four ribs. Two to puncture a lung to have it fill up with blood. The sensation is akin to drowning as he gurgles frothy red.

His fourth—

If he gets a badge of honour for every hit, he'll be littered with them. He loses count after the fourth time he dies at the end of a crowbar because death sounded like a pretty fucking good idea, especially when it's Joker's smile to greet him each time he manages to muster the energy to crack open an eye.

He couldn't tell you which life he was on when it ends in Bruce's arms again.

His skin is singed black from the burns and his tail missing patches of fur, his clothes are soaked through in his own blood. For death, this doesn't come close to count as quite a bad one when the last thing he gets to see is Bruce's face even if it's underneath the cowl.

He tries to rumble something in resemblance of a purr. He tries to smile for Bruce, to tell him _it's alright._

He just isn't so sure the man can tell his smile from his frown.

In hindsight, Jason wishes he said something at all.

That every cat gets nine lives whether they want it or not. That death doesn't stick in quite the same way.

His next death is a mistake, and it's that he comes back to life at all. He scratches and he scratches and he scratches through the heavy lid of the coffin for the rain of wet soil all over himself. He is alone and he is cold and he just wants to die again.

(He doesn't.)

(He isn't so lucky.)

The green of the Lazarus Pit as it fills up his lungs reminds Jason of a very familiar sensation.

It's dying.

Jason comes back to Bruce on another rainy night.

And it should really begin to feel like a pattern at this point. Thunder cracks loudly before lightning splits the Gotham skies in twos. Gargoyles casting long shadows down on to the streets. There is a time and a place for a meeting of this magnitude.

When Bruce's batarang comes cutting across his neck, Jason is wrath, Jason is death, Jason is life all in one.

Jason has nine lives to live.

He was always going to waste each one with Bruce.

If this is a story told in parts, it's to be told with a happy ending in mind.

If there is a moral to the story, it's knowing that there aren't always lessons to be learned.

Jason is probably making the same mistakes here, but he wants this just the same.

Maybe more.

Jason licks into Bruce's opened mouth, his tongue hot and wet and rough, curling and scraping against Bruce's. He is tired of being terrified. Instead he leaves scratches up and down Bruce's back, pulls his arms back just to claw his nails over Bruce's chest until the man is all marked up by him.

He mewls at the first prod of Bruce's fingers, brushing up against his hole and dragging across his taint. Bruce's palm envelops his balls and he can't help but rut against this single point of contact, grinding his hips back when the callouses over Bruce's hand only add to the pleasure racking up and up and _up_.

He doesn't tear at the sheets beneath him, he just spreads his legs wider, pulling Bruce over top of him with a lock of his ankles at the base of the man's lower back.

Heat pools wherever Bruce touches him, and the man touches him everywhere. There is hardly any space to be found between them.

 _P_ _lease_ and _more_ with each whine of Bruce's name.

"Jay—"

"No, don't." His tail quivers at a very particular touch. "You don't have to make any promises you can't keep." It gets the long sinew length of Jason's tail to wrap around Bruce's wrist, to wind up a good portion of his forearm while Bruce turns over a palm to lace their fingers together like it's a normal thing. "And I'll do the same, B."

He's got blood on his hands, and he isn't about to stop. Bruce can have him as he is, or not at all.

"Okay," Bruce murmurs, and they break even as he concedes, "I can do that."

Jason gives a full body shudder at the first press of Bruce's cock inside of him, an arch of his back from the mattress as Bruce fills him up in the most maddening of paces. He tips his head back for Bruce's mouth to suck bruises to his throat, keens as the man bites and nips until he finds the soft swell of his mouth again. Jason smiles exactly like the cat who ate the canary, swallowing whole the groan that Bruce lets up as he bottoms out in full.

Ever since the first night when he curled up on top of the sheets at the foot of Bruce's bed, ever since the same night when Bruce allowed him underneath the covers with him.

It's all a very familiar sensation now.

(It's being loved.)


	2. the golden years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason asserts his dominance. All it takes is nine lives to purrfect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the saddest catboy fic comes back with a vengeance because i really wanted to fill the grooming prompt of day 8 of brujay week with actual grooming instead. except it became more catboy shenanigans with a splash of watersports and still no fuzzy catballs in sight. 
> 
> please read it as an omake to the original oneshot of chapter 1.

After so long without, life with Jason is an adjustment.

And Bruce continues to be reminded of this. 

This, in particular, sharp and stark and sour, Bruce comes home to find his bed sheets reeking of _urine_.

Blunt press of his fingertips to his temples, and he breathes out, long and near silent before—

“Jason _Peter_ Todd!” Bruce bellows and his voice carries from the top of the stairs to the first floor, echoing down the hallway and into the library where Jason spends all of his afternoons if he spends any at all in the Manor. Bruce’s steps are always silent, or at least they should be. Except each one drops heavily as he comes down the stairs, louder and louder as he comes closer and closer.

And it sounds a lot like the thump thump thundering _thump_ of Jason’s heart inside the confines of his chest. He turns over in the perfect spot he’s created for himself in the alcove of the reading nook, hiding himself in the crook of his arms as he burrows his nose deeper into the paperback novel. Jason bristles when he can physically feel Bruce stopping to stand just behind him. 

Trying to balance that fine line of having him again without becoming overbearing, achingly so, and have Jason lashing out at him all over again. 

Even blood drawn between the two of them is blood drawn from love.

“Jason.” Jason turns another page, breathing in deeply through his nose at the scent of all those years held within these stories, kept within these Manor walls. It smells of home in it's stripped down form, and it isn't like he cannot hear the man speaking to him when Bruce can clearly see those ears twitching at the top of Jason's head. “Can you look at me, please?”

Jason ignores him blatantly, refusing to answer. Instead he curls in closer around himself, tips of his ears flickering still as he feels the sun through his clothes warming through to his skin and then sinking even deeper pass that to soak into the marrow of his bones. Taking root.

What grows from this remains yet to be seen.

“Jason. Can we talk about why you’re acting out like this?”

Jason grumbles unhappily, the sound vibrating through his chest as he sets the book down in a huff, turning over to glare at Bruce to seethe out: “Like _what_?”

“You know exactly what.” Bruce answers, trying for calm. A furrow between his brows, a frown pulling sternly at his mouth as he remembers exactly how many times he's had to personally change his sheets this week alone because Alfred has made it abundantly clear that he isn't about to get involved in this, whatever this is. This too remains yet another mystery to come crawling out from the wet earth of this land.

Bruce has never intimidated Jason, not even as a stray kitten lying limp in Bruce's arms for the very first time. Jason isn't about to let the man think that he's got a chance now when he bares all his teeth at him, daring the man to come any closer or risk losing a limb or two.

"And you should know exactly why too." 

The fact is that he should but he doesn't. Not for the life of him. Bruce watches as Jason turns over once more, picking up his book again, letting Bruce figure it out for himself.

It's pouring when they wake up.

Curtains thrown wide open, and it's all gray outside.

The grounds of the Manor is wet, muddy puddles dotting the long driveway all the way up to the front door. The windows are streaked in rain, drop after drop after drop a cascading rhythm on repeat. There are the flashes of lightning to splice the dark skies in halves, then come the low rumblings of thunder in the distance. It is precisely the kind of day to spend it at home and in bed, between the sheets with friction for heat.

Except Bruce is rummaging around in his walk-in closet for a shirt so he can show up in the midst of the latest disaster at Wayne Enterprise that requires a public face to smooth things over.

Jason is in the middle of the bed, limbs sprawling every which way, soaking up the warmth from the spot that Bruce vacated as he asks out loud in wonder: "What's the point of being the boss if you can't even have your goons deal with shit when it hits the fan?"

"Brucie Wayne doesn't have goons." Bruce answers, voice muffled as he is pulling a black turtleneck on over his head, hiding the canvas of scratches that made up his back.

"Maybe he should," Jason can't help but sigh, ever so softly to himself as he mourns the loss. Already missing the long raised lines of red he's made with his own nails, each one running parallel up along the thick cords of muscles of Bruce's shoulders. There is also the fainter scratches he left along Bruce's side, following the curve of his ribs, and of course, every last imprint of his teeth marking all across Bruce's neck and throat. "Maybe then he wouldn't have to go out in the middle of a thunderstorm to fix a lackey's mistake that's been blown out of proportions."

Matter of fact.

Spoken like a real crime boss who has made real impact in a city like Gotham herself.

Only for Bruce to ignore him.

Silence as he stands in front of the dressing room mirror, barely half a second and the man is stripping it off in quick succession. Even at this distance, it's clear the reason why. Bright ginger wisps standing out in sharp contrast to the black of the turtleneck, it's covered in shedding. Jason's shedding to be precise.

Jason watches as Bruce digs through a couple more of the standard Brucie attire before he stops in full. Realization dawns like the rising sun, it always comes. Bruce turns around when there isn't a single shirt to be found that isn't covered in Jason's hair to ask: "How is it that your shedding only gets on my clothes?"

"Do you see me wearing anything that cat hair can get on?" Jason grins at him with all his teeth, a Cheshire smile in place while he stretches out across the width of the California king bed, bare skin on full display.

Bruce doesn't roll his eyes but it's close. 

It's hardly a fair question when Jason is not wearing anything at all. 

Life with Jason is exactly this though. It's everything he doesn't deserve but have within reach. Bruce knows it, precisely like a man who has lost it. He steps up to the edge of the bed with the first shirt in hand, watching as Jason gracefully untangles himself from the sheets to get up on his knees so they are at the same height.

The bed is soft where it sinks down a little under his weight as Jason takes the shirt from Bruce and helps the man into it, reaching out with both hands to fix Bruce's mussed up hair. Settling those same hands over Bruce's shoulder, Jason digs in with his nails where he knows he's left his bruises and his marks as he smooths down the front of the shirt. And he can let Bruce go as he is but he doesn't. Instead, Jason leans in closer, brushing his nose to Bruce's temple, dragging his tongue over Bruce's chin to his cheek.

Little kitten licks in place of the hickeys he could leave behind, the rough spines over his tongue scraping against Bruce's skin, and the man doesn't even grimace. Bruce just lets him groom him as he pleases. Like he's already been made so used to this, at Jason's hand, that he isn't so sure he can live without.

(You're mine, Bruce. Like I'm yours.)

Jason doesn't say it because Bruce is finally putting it altogether. He's made his intention louder and clearer than any word he could choose to say.

Even the worst of the torrent rain can't wash this away for all that it can try. 

Large patch of sunshine streaming through the window, and Jason is stretched out over Bruce’s lap in the middle of the same bed. 

Just as he ever is, Jason is not subtle. Never has been, not with rocket launchers and explosives and decapitated heads in a dripping duffel bag all within his arsenal.

He is rubbing himself off in Bruce's lap while Bruce smooths a palm down Jason's back to rest it at the base of his tail that's whipping back and forth, lazily in the air. Bruce is working up the courage while Jason waits, nine lives and counting down, he helps himself to what Bruce has no qualms giving. And that's his physical affection even if he doesn't know how to put it into words.

Almost mechanical in his analysis, difficult as it comes unsticking out of him, Bruce states the obvious: "You wouldn't say it, but you made it more than clear."

"It still took you long enough though." Jason tips his head back with a half smile, not pausing even as he continues the conversation with a pointed rut against the hard muscle of Bruce's thighs. Ripples of pleasure with the friction, and Jason is shameless as he tries to lean into Bruce's broad palms, all nice and warm against his skin where Bruce is massaging the muscles of Jason's lower back. "Getting slow in your old age?"

"You could've just told me." Bruce replies, letting Jason buck against him with a soft purr that rumbles through them both upon contact and they are touching everywhere. Bruce waits for that shuddering sigh from Jason before he is sliding a hand down past the curve of his ass to ease two fingers inside of Jason.

He tilts his hips back to take in even more, panting out in retort when Bruce slides in a third, the pad of his thumb pressing insistently against that sweet spot at Jason's taint. "Would you've listened?"

Bruce knows better than to answer a question like that. It's no meant to be a trick question but he also knows not to draw it out for his own sake, figuring it's taken him long enough to put two and two together to come to the conclusion that Jason isn't acting out. He never has since he's agreed to come back. Jason is just claiming what's his, and Bruce is his no more than it holds true the other way around.

If the rule is that Jason has nine lives to live and all of them are wasted on Bruce.

Then this same rule holds true: Bruce has one lifetime, and he devotes it to Jason in its entirety.

"Exactly." Jason tells him in the silence, drawing back from his sprawl across Bruce's lap so he can climb up on to the bed, straddling Bruce properly. "Why don't you try calling _me_ boss for once?"

His knees settle down on the mattress on each side of Bruce's hips, one hand reaching back behind him to palm at Bruce's cock until the blunt thick crown is lined up with his entrance. 

"Also," Jason holds himself in that position, at the precipice, his mouth pulling into a wide grin full of mirth. "Don't you think it's pretty fucking funny to make Gotham's very own billionaire playboy change our sheets every day?"

Bruce doesn't state the obvious again, doesn't point out that Jason uses the word: Our.

Instead, if Bruce has any say in this at all, he would probably ask Jason to go slow because it's barely any preparation at all. Three fingers and no time really spent on stretching him out. But Jason is already sinking down in one hard motion without waiting for an answer, the curve of his ass slapping down audibly against the top of Bruce's thighs. 

He feels so soft where Bruce presses inside of him, the man's erection hard and hot, like a burning brand spreading his insides out in the shape of Bruce's cock. The sensation has Jason letting out a shaky little sound that wracks through him, his ears pressing flat across his head, tips quivering, toes curling, knuckles going white with how tight he is holding on.

He sits there for a moment, a long one as he adjusts. But it still feels like barely any time before Jason is moving without warning once more. This time with his mouth curled back to show all his teeth, one long exhale as he bottoms out again, and Jason is planting both hands down over Bruce's shoulders to pull himself up again.

He sets a pace of his own making, and Bruce is the ride.

Short of mewling wantonly for it, Bruce is convinced of how much Jason wants this from the way Jason's walls are fluttering down all around him, tight and hot and dripping wet. Each time Bruce's cock passes over his prostate, Jason's tail would go tense with pleasure, pulling lovely little sounds from between Jason's mouth as his hips give an involuntary jerk at how good it all feels. There's a fire there in those eyes, and Bruce thinks he wants it to consume him.

Jason is close, and Bruce right with him.

"You're mine." Jason murmurs as he leans down, close enough to press a kiss to Bruce's mouth. He's fierce in his statement as he drags both hands up curl around Bruce's jaw.

"So, what're you going to do about it, _boss_?" Bruce asks in answer, both arms coming up to wrap around Jason's waist, tugging him closer, crushing his mouth to his.

Each intake of shared breath goes shaky at the end.

It stings where there are scratches all over his shoulders and down his chest. Bruce never wants any of it to heal over, he wants this feeling all the time. Like a constant reminder that he is his. Bruce could come just like this, buried to the hilt inside of Jason where he burns hotter than the rest wrapped all around him, but he doesn't want to. Bruce lets him loose from his tight embrace just to be able to work a hand between them. To lay a palm against Jason's lower abdomen, to press down on the spot.

Bruce wants what Jason has been trying to prove to him all along.

That this is an irrevocable claim.

Pressure and pleasure and they are both intertwined. He doesn't even have to goad him into it. Pressure applied by the heel of Bruce's hand to just above Jason's cock, and it brings them to the very edge. Of control, to all of him.

Bruce comes at the first splash, Jason leaking warm and wet all over them until they are both drenched where they sit.


End file.
